


Unto the Breach

by ElwritesFanworks



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Banter, Canon Asexual Character, Facials, Inspired by Fanfiction, M/M, Oral Sex, Shower Sex, Unofficial Sequel, Urination, Watersports, golden showers, in an actual shower, possible spoilers for s3 though i tried to keep everything vague af
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-08 13:00:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16429862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElwritesFanworks/pseuds/ElwritesFanworks
Summary: Heavily inspired by the wonderful fic brink by Amber - please read that first as it is miles beyond anything I could come up with - this is just my little way of saying thank you for writing something so great.





	Unto the Breach

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [brink](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16263233) by [Amber](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amber/pseuds/Amber). 



> Set sometime towards the climax of S3. I've tried to be vague on details but if you're uncertain, best air on the side of avoid it for spoilers. But I'll leave that up to you.
> 
> Also I am of two minds about if this is good or not. It got all full of feels at the end. I don't have time to edit as much as I'd like because I'm doing my laundry and want to post this now so I don't forget, but I have to go get the clothes out of the machine in like 2 minutes. So I'll proofread some more later. I think it's coherent. I haven't slept properly in like 3 weeks so mea culpa in advance. :')

* * *

“You mean you’d let me – really?”

The compromise, such as it is, is more than Martin’s ever thought Jon would give him. It’s more than he’s thought _anyone_ would give him, if he’s being honest, and the whole thing just seems… bizarre? Surreal? Those words are too commonplace for two men working at the Magnus Institute. _Too kind, then,_ he thinks, and it fits. _Not that Jon can’t be kind but… this is special. This is a gift._

“Only if it would help,” Jon clarifies so primly that Martin very nearly laughs because how can anyone sound so high-brow while offering themselves up to be pissed on? “Psychologically, I mean. For... morale.”

“Uh – yeah, right – sure. Okay. Uh. M-my place, then?” he stumbles, tongue-tied. “T-tonight? We could do it another day if you’d rather, only –”

_Only the world might end. Inconvenient, that._

He gets a curt nod by way of a response, and then it’s business as usual for the rest of the afternoon.

What’s strangest of all is that even _as he’s taking off his trousers_ it feels like it isn’t happening. Not in the ‘reality is being manipulated by occult forces that human minds can barely comprehend’ way – just in the ‘sexy things don’t generally happen to Martin Blackwood’ way. In an odd sense, it’s reassuring. Normal. Having nothing to worry about but his own insecurities – his body, his (not entirely? Because this is twice now they’ve – and he never would’ve expected –) hopeless devotion to Jon, the fat around his middle, the fact that he’s kind of the opposite of smooth when it comes to knowing how and when to ‘make a move’ – feels a bit… homely, like a cozy sweater and a cup of tea at the end of a difficult day.

Jon’s already naked – he stripped with such efficiency that it was honestly a little off-putting; Martin hopes he doesn’t feel like he _has_ to do this, like it’s transactional or something. He’s not even a little aroused – but on some level Martin expected that. This is Jon, after all – this is something Jon’s doing _for him._ Still, Martin’s eager enough for both of them, feeling slightly greedy as he sneaks a glance at his prick, nearly hidden completely by a tangle of dark hair. It’s funny to think of Jon with brown hair – it suits him, but in Martin’s mind he always sees him with the gunmetal grey that makes him look so distinguished and wise beyond his years. He’d not really spared it a thought, the last time, on account of he was too busy having his world shift on its axis over the reality of seeing Jon naked at all, but he’s really quite glad that the Archivist isn’t too fastidious about personal grooming – everything’s clean, but natural. Makes Martin feel like less of a slob by comparison – his mind, briefly, flashes to a scene from a comedy program – _Black Books,_ maybe? Something about gays and their ‘prohibitive standards of hygiene.’ It’s not far from the mark. Martin’s aware that even at his best, he has stretchmarks and freckles and the sort of gingery bush that he has to leave long. If he shaves it and it comes in like stubble, it looks like a rash.

Jon makes an annoyed sound, shifting his weight in the tub, bony knees pressing hard against unforgiving ceramic. The little sticky non-slip grips are sandpapery and rough – his kneecaps are already turning a blotchy pink. It’s enough to pull Martin out of the tailspin of self-reproach and situate him firmly back in the present.

“If you’ve… er… changed your mind – we can – we can just… not,” Martin offers lamely. Jon gives him a withering look.

“I haven’t. Yet. Though that may change if you don’t actually _do something._ ”

“Right! Right, okay… sorry.”

Martin steps into the tub past the garish shower curtain – cheerful little frogs in bathing caps he liked when he bought it but that, in the presence of the man he thinks the world of, make him somewhat childish – and swallows hard. He’s nervous as much as he is excited, palms sweating as he commits the sight of his boss _kneeling before him_ to memory.

“Uh… I’ll just… get on with it, then,” Martin ventures, and it sounds like a question even though it isn’t really. Jon nods once, mouth tightly closed, nostrils flaring a bit like he’s facing down the barrel of a gun, which really isn’t the most ill-fitting metaphor, Martin supposes. He reaches down to aim his prick and finds his hands are shaking. It takes a minute – always does – to piss where he rationally knows he shouldn’t, but then the faint prickle of urgency turns into a sharp zing along his nerves and, after a few dribbling spurts, he begins to go in earnest.

The stream hits Jon in the chest first, pooling in the hollow of his clavicle, trickling down through the patchy hair on his chest, pattering loudly on the floor of the tub below. Martin swallows and cautiously adjusts his angle, and the steaming ark traces upwards over the sharp lines of the Archivist’s jaw, his gaunt cheeks, his mouth.

 _Like a kiss,_ Martin thinks, which is ridiculous, really, but the errant bit of poetry makes him groan softly.

Jon opens his eyes and looks up.

Fuck. _Fuck._ He’s beautiful – it’s all Martin can think coherently – _beautiful beautiful beautiful._ The silver in his hair and gold catching on his lips; the shine in his eyes and on his wet face. He looks so intense – wide-eyed in surprise more so than desire – and it’s _gutting._ It gives him a sort of iridescence, a luminosity that makes him seem so uniquely fine and prized that Martin can’t help but moan again, insistent, to rut his still pissing cock against any part of him he can reach. The angle shifts again and, somehow, he is _still pissing_ – a workday’s worth of cups of tea and glasses of water gushing forth to soak the hair at Jon’s temples, nearly white in places, to wet his forehead and the premature creases there. Jon shuts his eyes as it hits them, too, and opens his mouth to breathe – he’s breathing hard. Martin is transfixed – Jon, panting, drops of urine falling from his upper lip into his mouth. He wants to look down, see if he’s hard, but doing so would mean looking away from the most spectacular sight he’s ever seen and he can’t bear to miss a second.

Jon said he wouldn’t swallow it when he made his proposition. Martin hadn’t realized that meant he’d go as far as to leave his mouth open, but he does – letting his mouth fill, then spill over, a waterfall down his chin. Beautiful, clever, eccentric, oblivious Jon wouldn’t think about fucking _raunchy_ that looks, but Martin does. Drool and piss. It’s so debauched – so fundamentally naughty that Martin can’t process it. He’s never dared to hope for anything like this – fantasize, yes – but never actually _hope._

Of course, it ends – it has too – and Martin’s bladder had been full for so long that, on emptying, it gives a sort of hollow pang of pain. It misfires, it makes his cock twitch and fill until he’s hard and aching and Jon is just… just breathing on him. It feels amazing – more intimate than actually being sucked off, if he’s telling the truth. Jon looks back up at him and swallows hard, lips still damp and shiny.

“Did it help?”

God, his voice is an octave lower than usual and it goes right to Martin’s dick.

“Yeah,” he answers breathlessly, “God, yeah, it did. That was –”

He doesn’t have a word for it. Jon reaches past him and turns the shower on and warm water hits Martin in the back, falling over them both and washing away the evidence. Jon doesn’t make any move to stand.

“Good,” he says in the softer more introspective tone he uses rarely – around Martin, at least. Martin would dare say it’s… fond, in its own particularly ‘Jon’ way. “Good.”

He leans forward and rests his cheek against Martin’s cock. He doesn’t lick it or anything. He just nuzzles, slowly and with great care. Shuts his eyes and just… kneels. Inhales. Exhales.

It’s the most peaceful moment of Martin’s life, which he finds a bit… odd to think about. Most people find serenity in nature, or maybe in a church if they’re the religious type – not with their boss breathing gently against their balls.

Time seems to stretch on. If Martin closes his eyes, the hot water hitting his back is as likely to be piss as not. Jon’s mouth moves over him, lips catching on the head. Another kiss of sorts, reverent, tender.

“You really like this, don’t you?”

It’s asked analytically enough, and Martin feels it more than hears it, murmured against his tip.

“I love it,” he answers candidly. “I love you.”

It falls so freely, so naturally from his lips that he doesn’t even consider he’s been compelled until Jon stops entirely. He looks down and sees his boss’s face is pale with shame.

“I didn’t… I didn’t think. Martin, I didn’t mean you to –”

“I know,” Martin says, and he means it. “I know. It’s okay.”

“But I – I don’t know – I –”

“It’s _okay,_ Jon.”

He reaches down at last – tangles fingers in unruly greying hair.

“It’s alright.”

He means it, too. After so long with nothing, this is more than he could ever have asked for. He’s happy with his little portion of hope – however unhealthy an outside observer may find that. If he wanted something else, he wouldn’t have wanted Jon – and he does. He wants him as he is. It must be what Jon wants to hear, because the next thing Martin knows, the Archivist’s lips are closing over the head of his cock. They pull off languidly and without force – a kiss of a different kind. He’s never been treated so gently, like he’s precious or special or… or just something more than simply ‘Martin.’ He finds Jon’s hand, bracketing his hip, and gives it a squeeze. To his astonishment and delight, Jon squeezes back.

“Are you close?”

God, it shouldn’t be so good – Jon’s mouth so close to him, feeling him speak. Martin blushes as he stutters out a strangled ‘yeah.’ It should be embarrassing; he’s barely been touched and he’s already aching.

“Would you – ah… I don’t want to –”

“You can ask – please,” Martin insists. “I don’t mind.”

“Would you like to come off in my mouth?”

“I – I’d rather do it on your face,” he blurts out and must look stricken because Jon babbles another apology.

“No – no, I said you could ask. My fault,” Martin says as firmly as he can with a tongue wriggling over him.

“You can, though,” Jon replies. “If you like.”

“What – really?”

“You’ve already _pissed_ on me, Martin – if anything, this is a step towards conventionality.”

He says it with the dry reproach that Martin can’t help but love and it shows in the way his cock jumps slightly. Jon snorts.

“That really… ‘gets your engine running,’ as they say?”

The words roll awkwardly off his tongue. Martin laughs helplessly.

“Yeah,” he grins. “Can’t help it.”

“Ridiculous,” Jon mutters, but he does so with his mouth occupied so it comes out muffled. He starts lavishing attention on Martin’s balls – rolling them in his hand and tugging perfunctorily – and it’s all Martin can do not to pull his hair.

“M’gonna,” he keens, “Jon, I’m gonna come.”

“I certainly hope so,” Jon replies. “My knees are –”

His hand slips – a genuine accident – and the tip of one cool finger, irregular with a writer’s bump – slides back and nicks the edge of Martin’s hole.

“Oh, sod your knees, Jon!” he wails, and comes, rather spectacularly, on his boss’s bemused, upturned face.

He returns to earth, dazed, to see Jon soaping up and washing off under the spray of the shower-head. He studies his worm scars, and the way he moves, tensed, as if waiting for some great evil to unfold.

_And isn’t it going to?_

“You’ll be careful, won’t you?” Martin blurts out, and it’s stupid to ask, really, because Jon’s a grown man and it’s not as though he responds well to being fussed over at the best of times and –

“You’ll… hold the fort, man the post and all that?” Jon replies, looking over his shoulder. He looks… startlingly young, for a moment. _Scared._ He turns to rinse off and when he looks back, the expression’s gone again. Guarded. Martin can’t find any words strong enough to rise through the knot in his chest. He tries, but all that comes out is a pained noise of no consequence.

“Once more unto the breach, then,” Jon sighs. “Did this… did it help?”

Martin wants to hug him – to hold him close and not let him go away again, not back into danger and uncertainty and horror.

“Might’ve just made it harder for me to lose you,” he admits, because he has too – he can’t lie to Jon. Even without being compelled, he couldn’t.

In the end, it’s Jon who hugs him – stiffly, but firm – a full-body embrace that is over as quick as it starts. Then he’s out of the shower, toweling off and saying something about making a pot of tea before leaving and Martin is grateful, so grateful, that he loves _this_ man, this brilliant, oblivious man, who has given him a few moments alone. (Who has given him so much more than that.) Martin takes those moments, privately, to cry. When he emerges, damp and swaddled in a bathrobe, he finds a single cup of tea and a hand-written note waiting for him.

 _I’ll do my best. Drink this._  
~~I don’t~~  
This helped me too.  
\- Jon

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, thanks to Amber for writing the best id fic I've ever read and just generally having great kinks, if that's the kind of thing you can commend a person on. I'm commending it, damn it. It cheered my sad, grad student heart up to read 'Brink' and all of Amber's other TMA fics so you know what. Well done, you. Your fics are a treat.


End file.
